


Silver Grin

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Biting, Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What he does have is need so strong it chokes him and a Sheppard who is listless in his preliminary making out, hard enough to enjoy it but not really any more than that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Grin

It's starts because there's been a week of stress, which leads to a week of unintentional celibacy, which leads to Rodney _hauling_ John into the nearest available room that doesn't have cameras or people potentially walking by. That makes John squawk because the man doesn't actually like surprises very much, at least not when he's still running on _gotta save the day, how the hell am I going to save the day_ or whatever passes for thinking under all that damned hair, and by then Rodney is not willing to even _hear_ a no, not even the tiniest little bit, so the minute John starts to protest Rodney bites John's lip. Hard. When that isn't enough, he ducks his head down and bites along John's neck and underneath his shirt, not even _aware_ this might hurt because it feels good to taste John's sweat against his tongue, licking it away while he clenches down tighter than he possibly means, leaving his marks branded in John's skin when he pulls back enough to look at them.

Also, John is hard. John is _spectacularly_ hard and holding himself utterly, perfectly still in the way Rodney has learned means _yes, please, don't you dare stop._

They rut fast and rough, come staining underneath their clothes, but Rodney remembers. He remembers that soft, half-swallowed pant when Rodney had hoisted John up enough that he can bite _hard_ against the thinner skin stretched over John's hips. He remembers the way John came first, barely touched because the angle's all wrong and while Rodney is rutting hard against his thigh, John's cock is getting nearly no friction at all.

And he remembers the way John follows him like a puppy when they're done, trailing behind him until they're safely back in Rodney's rooms and John can suck him hard and blow him for nearly a solid hour, eyes _black_ whenever they open enough for Rodney to see.

Rodney's not particularly good at spontaneity. He's aware this comes as a surprise to no one at all, so while it starts in the back of his mind and percolates there for weeks, he doesn't really have a plan. He doesn't even have supplies.

What he does have is need so strong it chokes him and a Sheppard who is listless in his preliminary making out, hard enough to enjoy it but not really any more than that.

"Okay," Rodney snaps, sitting up. "That is absolutely enough of that. Sit up and take off your pants. No! No arguing," he says when John opens his mouth, too lazy and bored -- bored! -- to even do _that_ with any kind of intent. "Pants off, now."

"Bossy," Sheppard grumbles, but the pants are thankfully unzipped and taken off. Rodney keeps an eye out because the lunatic has a tendency to _leave_ when Rodney's not expecting it, but he finds what he wants quickly enough.

"Bed, and don't even try to tell me you don't like bossy."

Rodney's not referring to himself -- there's a much longer line of bossy women Sheppard's panted after -- but the lazy leer he gets means _John_ thinks so. Whatever. He waits until John climbs back onto the bed and isn't looking at him before he pounces:

Rodney yanks both arms out from under John so he collapses onto his back, smirking as the poor baby cries out in confused dismay that turns into real surprise and anger when he feels the silky blue tie knotted close around his wrists. "MCKAY!" he snarls, because John doesn’t sort-of dislike being tied up, he really, _really_ dislikes being tied up.

"Shut up. Not one word -- not _one_ Sheppard," he snarls in a good approximation of the same voice John just used. Leaning down, he attacks John's nearest nipple, sucking on it just long enough to make John start thinking about relaxing before he bites. Hard. _Really_ hard, enough to make John's whole body jerk like he just touched a live wire.

"McKay?"

"What part of shut up are you unclear on?" Rodney works the nipple in his mouth from dusky rose to a fever-hot pink before switching his attentions to the other one. He's still wearing his own pants, and socks, and he lets his weight settle over John's by-now-very-very-hard cock, moving in a rough figure eight even as he nips harder than ever.

A burst of wet heat staining his pants is absolutely the reward he wants.

When he's finally calm enough to pull back, John's eyes are wide, mouth open despite how quietly he's breathing, which is due solely to effort. Rodney's _tasted_ how tightly wound he is, muscles screaming as they're forced into normal patterns.

For a moment -- two, three, eight -- Rodney stands there with his pants tented, arms crossed, glaring his fiercest glare.

By moment three, John's legs widen. By five his shoulders have relaxed, even if he still tenses his wrists against the tie every couple of breaths, and his fingers uncurl to hang more loosely.

By eight there's not even a hint of brown left in his eyes. "Rodney," he says. He's trying to be cajoling, probably, or alluring. Neither of those tones are ever successful, but still John doggedly keeps trying. "Rodney, I -- "

His shoulders _ache_ when he uncrosses his arm, dropping one hand down to John's leg, trailing his fingers along the inner thigh. "Yes? What was that, I couldn't hear you?"

"God, Rodney, I -- " The careful control is starting to shatter. John's chest is heaving now, if still not quite where Rodney wants it, and he's licking his lips over and over, back arching imperceptibly to push himself closer.

Rodney's quite certain John doesn't even know what he's doing. That, according to John, he's laying still and passive.

That makes it hotter.

"My -- my thigh."

Rodney smiles approvingly as he yanks John's leg up, pushing it up and slightly away so he can suck bruises along John's knee, up the same path he'd just brushed moments before, to slowly add teeth and pressure and a driving passion that makes Rodney's head feel too small, unable to hold it all inside of him.

John starts moaning at the first brush of teeth and by the time it's a full-on bite he's _keening_ , fucking empty air. Rodney absently reaches down with his free hand and roughly strips his cock, then cups his balls softly -- it's disconcerting to the both of them -- just holding them while he turns John's leg first pink then a full-on mottled red.

It's probably the fiercest bite Rodney will make. He's aware of the limits, even if John isn't at the moment, and no matter how much he wants to bite and bite until his teeth meet in the middle, he doesn't actually want to do that to _John_. He's never been fond of blood in his sex and has absolutely no intention of starting now.

But John doesn't know that, and the potential mind-fuck of it all has John rocking into his hand, holding his own leg steady just so Rodney doesn't have to do anything but lick across fire-hot skin, scraping his teeth over sensitive places Rodney made.

"My stomach," John whimpers and that sets up the game. Rodney bites and licks and sucks John all over, wherever he wants and sometimes where he doesn't, because _Rodney_ wants to bite there -- his arms, right where it would curve, if his arms were straight, where it won't look like a mouth made that bruise -- the too-soft skin below his armpits, just skirting the outside of his sac. Rodney bites and tastes until his mouth is dry and then -- then it's _easy_.

He undoes John's wrists, intending to chaffe blood back into them. John doesn't allow him the time, shoving Rodney on the bed even as he yanks Rodney's pants off -- they tear, a startling loud _rip_ against the frantic sound of their breathing -- kissing wetness back into Rodney's dry, dry mouth even as he works himself slick, lube spilling all over both their legs from uncoordinated, still mostly blood-less fingers.

Rodney makes his first sound when John sinks down on him, then again when there's no time for either of them to adjust. John forces himself down to the deepest point and then he's up again, posting like he spent childhoods the way Rodney did, forced to attend his sisters riding lessons and unfortunately learning all the way, his body a multi-colored rainbow as it flexes and sweats and drives faster and faster until he's _bouncing_ on Rodney's cock, reaching that sweet, fast friction that Rodney only rarely gets when he's not the one doing the fucking.

"You first," he croaks. He misses John's dick with the first grab, but on the second he gets it, mostly providing a tight fist for John to fuck himself into. He's not coordinated enough to do more, not now, and frankly, he doesn't need to -- John is _gone_ , his body totally in control as he ruts and moves and finally lets out a low, hoarse groan as he comes all over Rodney's hand and stomach.

He doesn't stop moving, though. His body has to be screaming to stop and Rodney _knows_ his cock is too sensitive to still be held, but John doesn't stop or ask Rodney to let go. He just fucks himself faster still, allowing Rodney to feel the tight contractions of John's pleasure and then, oh god, then he _offers a hand_ for Rodney to suck and bite, molars tightly controlled against finger and pad and he has just enough presence of mind to spit out John's fingers before he comes so hard his jaw pops, body funneling down to a single point of overriding pleasure.

His body feels almost numb, afterwards, so he doesn't bother helping John climb off his cock and stumble onto the floor, swaying dangerously as he heads to the bathroom. "Need to check you over," Rodney tells his pillow. 

His eyes are shut and he's not quite sure when that happened.

"'M fine." John returns to clean them up, which frankly, Rodney wishes he wasn't so fanatic about because he likes the idea of waking up still smelling like John's come, but the rag is soft and warm and the circular motions feel good.

"You might not be."

"Am."

"Might not." John's back in the bathroom, returning with a bottle of lime-green liquid that he leaves prominently on the bed side table -- which is, huh, pushed out of alignment, when'd that happen? -- before mostly collapsing into bed and rolling right on top of Rodney.

"That's why you made that crap," John mumbles into Rodney's shoulder.

"Hm. True. Oh my god, get off of me, you're too heavy. I'm not becoming asthmatic just because you're cold when you sleep." Rodney suspects those words did not come out cleanly.

The message gets across, though, and with a put-upon sigh John slugs his way onto his side, yanking Rodney's arm over his middle so that Rodney is breathing neck and hair more than actual air.

"Demanding bastard."

John makes a braying laugh which should be enough to keep _anyone_ from sleep, but somewhere along the way, Rodney has discovered it's... reassuring. John’s still chuckling, punch-drunk with it, when he manages, "Says the kettle?"

"Go to _sleep_ , god, how are you still conscious?"

"Gonna have to call off sick tomorrow," John mumbles back, slurring his sentence into one long word.

"We can't do that, we're too important." A few seconds later he remembers to add, "Why?"

"Cause tomorrow I see sixty nines. Lots of 'em," and yes, okay, that's a very good reason to call off tomorrow.


End file.
